The Cresperian Alliance (2 page)

"Sgt. Bangler?"

"That's me. I was told the Cap'n wanted to see me."

"He does. Go on in,” the PFC replied, pointing to another open door.

Bangler walked in and reported to the middle aged captain. The age and rank weren't congruent, he knew. A captain that old had either come up from enlisted ranks or was a reservist who'd been called back up. Or an officer who'd been on someone's shit list.

He really didn't care so long as he got to leave this dusty hole. In general he'd liked Texas, though, so he didn't add any of the obvious adjectives to his mental description of the post.

"Sgt. Bangler, I have orders for you."

"Thank you sir. Where am I being posted?"

He was answered with a thin smile. “Frankly, I don't have a clue, Sergeant. Your orders came in a sealed package. Here you are.” He half-stood and handed a large manila envelope across the desk. It was sealed with “Top Secret” tape. Another, smaller envelope was attached to the first with a sticky seal.

Puzzled, Bangler took the envelopes and looked inquiringly at the captain. He didn't know quite what he'd expected, but whatever it had been, this wasn't it.

"The smaller one has your immediate instructions,” the captain elaborated. “The sealed orders aren't to be opened until you arrive at the destination noted in the instructions. And please don't ask me what this is all about. I don't know. You aren't authorized any ‘delay in route’ leave, either. Whoever wants you is in a hell of a hurry."

"Thank you, sir. Is that all?"

He shrugged, a wry expression on his face. “That's all, Sergeant."

Bangler saluted and left. Apparently he had his change in orders but they sure had come in funny. He could hardly wait until he got back to his room to open the instructions, and he knew he would be practically dying of curiosity by the time he was allowed to open the secret part of his orders.

But when he got back to his room, another surprise awaited. A youngish man wearing jeans and undershirt with a light wind breaker was in his room, sitting in the visitor's chair, when he returned to the barracks. Bangler stopped in the doorway, surprised and angered.

"Who in the hell are you and what are you doing messing around in my room?” he asked loudly. He felt his hands tightening into fists.

Without even standing up, the man replied. “Haven't you looked at your instructions yet?"

"Huh?"

"Open the white envelope."

Puzzled, Bangler tore it open. Inside was a piece of paper. This part of his orders were typed in a simple sentence.
Do exactly as Mr. Herman Weingarten instructs. Do not open your secret orders until he tells you to do so.

"You're Weingarten?"

"That's me. Let's get you packed. You're allowed twenty-five kilos of luggage."

"What!? I've got a hell of a lot more than that!"

"Calm down. We know that. Just take what you think you can't do without for right now. The rest of your belongings will be packed for you. They'll catch up with you eventually."

Bangler shook his head, not sure whether to be disgusted, angry or excited. “All I've got to say is these are the craziest orders I've ever heard of."

Weingarten smiled. “Just wait. You ain't heard anything yet."

Gray eyes narrowed against the sunlight, Bangler looked out the window of the eight passenger private Gulfstream 150. He was surprised that it was the civilian model, instead of the Air Force version, the C-38 Courier. They were over the Southern Plains, heading east, and that was all he knew. There were others in the plane with him, four men and three women who had been picked up at two other stops. Most of them appeared to be in their thirties or early forties and had obviously been told not to talk about where they were going, just as he had—as if he knew. His mind was busy with furious speculation but nothing he had heard of since joining the army shortly after graduation from FSU came close to what was going on. Weingarten was still acting as his guide, or keeper, more likely, making sure that he and whoever the others were got to where they were supposed to go with as little outside contact as possible. That alone made him figure that whatever he was getting into was going to be blacker than Weingarten's skin and it didn't come much darker than that. The man was so black he would have been almost invisible on a moonless night.
Must enjoy being outside,
Bangler decided, noting the lighter skin just inside the man's open collar. But Weingarten seemed like an okay guy, bright, alert, astute and very much aware of everything going on around him, including undercurrents. Bangler decided he liked him—what he knew of him.
Which,
Bangler had to admit to himself,
isn't a whole lot.

"You don't say much,” Weingarten said to him after they had been flying for an hour. He had taken the only empty seat, the one beside Bangler.

"Mr. Weingarten, my instructions were to do what you said and wait for you to tell me before opening my orders. So I'm sitting here where you told me and I'm waiting. I figure eventually I'll know what the hell is going on.” Bangler shrugged.

"Right. You'll know soon enough but no need to be formal. Call me Herman."

"Okay, Herman. I'm Ed. Can you tell me when I'll know something?"

Weingarten grinned at something Bangler couldn't see. “Yep. About an hour after we land. That's when we'll part company. In the meantime, how about a drink?"

"Am I on duty?"

"Yes, but it's shiny. What'll you have?"

Bangler suddenly wondered whether he could trust the man but decided he might as well. Besides, he could sure as hell use a drink. Packing and leaving in such an all fired damn hurry had upset him—or maybe agitated was a better word, he decided—and he was still not really settled down. He didn't care much for secrecy. At least not at this level.

"Do you have bourbon?"

"Jim Beam."

"That's good. Over ice."

He watched as Herman opened a cabinet and produced a tiny, single serving bottle. He raised his brows when he saw that it was White Label. The man went first class. A disposable cocktail glass, a scoop of ice, and Herman poured the contents of the little bottle over the ice. He brought the drink to him then amiably served the others.

The first sip of the very smooth bourbon took him back to his teenage years in Kentucky where his father worked at a distillery. He had been allowed small amounts of bourbon from the time he was fourteen and had developed a taste for it when he drank, but he followed his Dad's advice and never had more than two or three drinks in any one entire day after he was grown. Being in Special Forces gave him less opportunity than most but he didn't mind. He wasn't a heavy drinker and it was all the better when he allowed himself to indulge.

"Good stuff, huh?"

"Yes, it is. Thanks."

"No problem. Glad to see a man enjoy his booze, instead of just knocking it back. Mind if I ask you a question, Bang?"

Bangler winced, suddenly understanding Weingarten's earlier grin. “Where did you hear that?"

"It's what you're called, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I had hoped when I got a transfer it would get lost—but I suppose that's expecting too much."

"It would be. You're stuck with it for life, pal.” Weingarten shot him a grin, brilliant white in his dark chocolate face. “Why did you enlist in the Army? You could have applied for a commission."

He shrugged. “My Dad thought it would be a good idea. If I liked the army I could always apply for OCS."

"You probably wouldn't have to, as much as the army needs well educated men. A degree in Biology and another in Math would have done it for you easy."

"Probably. If I stay in, an enlisted hitch or two won't hurt me."

"Do you think you'll stay?"

Bangler grinned. “I suppose so. I like the army, most ways. Too much bureaucracy, but I guess you'll find that in any big organization."

"True. Most, but not all,” he added enigmatically.

"How about you? What do you do, other than shepherd sergeants and other strange people around the country?"

"That's about it right now. Another drink?"

He refused. “No, I think I'll let the seat back and try to get a nap. No telling what's in front of me."

The Gulfstream landed at a dusty, secluded private airport a couple of hours laterhe and Herman were put in the back seat of a nondescript car with bad shocks and driven into forest covered hills that rose higher the farther they drove. Two other cars followed at long intervals behind them. Eventually, after an increasingly bumpy ride—Bangler could quickly see why the shocks were bad, and why nobody really bothered to repair them—they came to a stop. On his side he saw nothing but trees. He couldn't see very far past Herman. A granite wall was in the way. As he watched, an entrance in what appeared to be solid rock slid open.

"All out,” the driver said, the first words he'd uttered since telling them to crawl into the back seat.

Bangler exited and pulled his two bags from the trunk. Herman gathered one of them and motioned to him. “Hurry, so we can close this back up."

Inside was nothing more than a lighted, paved tunnel into the rock and three golf carts, two of them with drivers. Herman climbed into the driver's seat of the empty one as the door to the outside slid closed, fast, smooth and silent.

"'Curiouser and curiouser,'” Bangler quoted.

"Yep. You could open your orders now but you may as well let it wait. I'm taking you directly to your room."

"My room? In a mountain?"

"It's a big mountain. We're going in the back way. Uh, one of the back ways. Bigger groups come in more openly. Topside is what looks like a big mining headquarters, along with a real coal mine."

The statement about a big mountain proved prophetic. After driving silently for a very—VERY—long way, the cart entered an elevator and descended fast enough to make his ears pop. The door opened and Herman drove the cart into a hallway. He kept to the right and before long passed a number of people, men and women both, most in uniforms he recognized but a couple in uniforms Bangler'd never seen before. He wondered whether they were with some allied army, then put the thought away. He'd know soon enough, presumably. Periodically the hall was marked with various colored dots.

The cart turned several corners and finally entered a hallway marked by a series of doors with nameplates attached. It stopped at one.

"Welcome to the Brider Enclave,” Herman announced. “You are now a part of the Space Force Research Center, otherwise known as The Group.” Bang raised an eyebrow.

Herman grinned at him and removed a tag from his wallet. He slid it into the nameplate slot. The nameplate read, “S/Sgt Edward Bangler."

Hm. Staff sergeant, huh?
Bangler thought. It looked as if he had been promoted.

The room was small. Really small. It consisted of a bunk that folded up and attached to the wall, two chairs that did the same, a wall locker and a very small head with a tiny shower stall and a sink with drawers beneath. Against one wall were another, more comfortable looking chair and an alcove containing a monitor with keyboard beneath. Presumably the CPU was there somewhere or more likely the monitor was interfaced with it from somewhere else. Bangler had no more than begun to unpack before the monitor lit up and a face came into view, that of a pleasantly pretty woman.

"Sergeant Bangler,” she said, “please report to your headquarters. Turn right in the hall and follow the green dots."

"Got it,” he replied, and the monitor blinked off.

He allowed just enough time to wash his face and comb his short dark hair before leaving, taking no more than a couple of minutes. He walked for a long time, it seemed, until the hall opened up into a series of cubicles. A clerk at a small desk guarded the entrance, the same one who had spoken from the monitor.

"Sergeant Bangler?"

"That's me.” He took out his ID card.

She looked at it briefly, then pointed to a narrow aisle between cubicles. “Straight ahead. First Sergeant is waiting on you."

Damn.
And he still hadn't opened his orders. He followed the directions and wound up in an enclosed office. Inside was a PFC, obviously a clerk, and a Master Sergeant with oriental features in one of those funny uniforms. A diamond icon adorned his sleeve above the stripes.

"Staff Sergeant Bangler reporting, First Sergeant,” he said.

"Glad to have you. I'm Wang. You're the last one. Give me your orders."

He handed over the manila envelope with the unbroken Top Secret tape.

"Not curious?"

"I thought I would get unpacked, then sit down and read. Obviously I had my priorities backwards."

"Not to worry. Everything is in a damn rush, including an emergency mission before leaving, unless I miss my guess. I'm going to have someone take you for a bite to eat and show you around. Your duty for tomorrow is to take the whole day and go over the parameters of Mission White Horse in case it comes up. Just type it in on your keyboard and give it a thumbprint when it asks for it. The unit will have dinner tomorrow at seven after the others have cleared out of the cafeteria. You'll meet your people and the other NCOs and officers tomorrow. And don't worry about being behind. We just got the order to activate the mission study yesterday and we still have two men on the way to fill out the Table of Organization and Equipment. They should be here sometime tomorrow, I hope. Hell, we just found out where we'll be going if the mission comes off, so we're all babes in the woods, so to speak.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, I'll bet you're hungry, and so am I. I'll show you the cafeteria myself."

Once seated with trays, Wang asked, “Ever hear about aliens on Earth, Bang?"

"Huh?”
The nickname already. And... aliens?
“Uh, yes, First Sergeant, I've read a lot of speculation the last year or so, things about an alien spaceship crashing on Earth and little green men running around everywhere, but I didn't put much stock in it."

"Most of it is pure shit, but you may as well know some of the stories are true. Your new assignment is to the Space Marines. This is where we process crews for the spaceships being built."